


Facade

by FireFleshAndBlood



Category: Tintin - All Media Types
Genre: M/M, Older man, Topping from the Bottom, younger man
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-23
Updated: 2015-09-23
Packaged: 2018-04-23 02:59:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,331
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4860491
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FireFleshAndBlood/pseuds/FireFleshAndBlood
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A late night visit to the bad end of Brussels to visit an old sea dog. Appearances aren't always what they seem, Tintin isn't quite the innocent boy the papers make him out to be. Captain Haddock benefits from their assumptions.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Facade

**Author's Note:**

> Long ago I answered a kink meme prompt and wrote this fanfic, I'm now archiving it here. Tintin tops from the bottom in this one and there's a fair bit of atmospheric grot. Imagine this sometime before Captain Haddock finds his treasure and his house but after The Shooting Star. Enjoy.

  


Facade

  


I

  


There was a chill in the air, beset with a dampness that made a misty film appear on every surface. The puddles had ice around their edges that crackled as Tintin stepped close to them. There were sounds coming from the dark streets that resembled shouts and drunken revelry. The grimy brick buildings were covered in a thick fog that was occasionally pierced by yellow lights from pub windows.

  


It wasn't usual for Tintin to visit this part of Brussels as it wasn't very nice. It was very far from the cheerful houses he was used to on his own Labrador road. He might not have ever walked the streets he was walking now, if he hadn't met the Captain.

  


He still hadn't properly thanked him, at least that was what he told himself as he picked his way through rubbish peppered back alleys to the sound of yowling cats. Normally Tintin would have had a furry companion for company but it was best that Snowy didn't come on these types of escapades, he was tucked away safely at home on his cushion with a lovely bone. Warm and cozy in their flat with the big windows and winter garden. It was better for expediency that Tintin went alone.

  


The Captain's building had an exterior door with iron bars that slid open with a bang and a rattle. The land lady opened the front door a crack, her sour expression an affront to unwary visitors, until her face lit up with recognition.

  


“Oh,” she said, as her grim demeanor melted away, “Mr. Tintin. How lovely to see you again, dear.”

  


“Good evening,” he said, “I'm here to see the Captain. Is he in?”

  


It was important to be proper when one was doing improper things.

  


“Yes he is,” she said, “Right upstairs, you know the way.”

  


“I do,” he said, “Thank-you.”

  


He stepped inside. The Chinoiserie wallpaper was faded into a mangy gray, a drip could be heard high above Tintin's head in the pipes. His footsteps echoed loudly on the wood that had been shined recently, although it didn't do much good. The floor was so scratched it was almost buffed down to its core. A tattered rug decorated the hallway and a few dim lights dotted the dark staircase leading upwards to the apartments.

  


“I'm so glad,” she said, as she closed the door behind him, “So happy he has someone to look out for him. Especially such a proper young man like yourself. You know how he gets when he's left alone with those bottles.”

  


“Everyone needs some looking after,” Tintin said, “He's still a very capable man, Madame. Despite it.”

  


“I know dear,” she said, “But I always fear one day knocking on the door and having no answer because of his dreadful habits.”

  


Smoking, drinking and sailing. It was quite the tawdry collection of occupations, there was no doubt about that. And now, newsworthy adventures had been added to the list. It was no wonder the old spinster worried.

  


“I'll be sure to keep an eye on him,” Tintin said, “I promise.”

 

“Off you go then,” she said.

  


Her mind was likely filled with wholesome scenarios; a nice young man come to look after a lonely old sea dog who eased his troubles with polite conversation. It was a farcical story as Tintin fancied that neither of them were particularly wholesome persons when it came down to it, no matter how much the papers liked to assume.

  


Up he went, the creaks and pops on the steps so loud an elderly man scrutinized his passing from his doorway. Tintin had seen the elderly gentleman as he ascended the stairs many times before.

  


“Good evening,” Tintin said.

  


The old man snorted derisively, “What's so good about it, then? What business do you have at nine o' clock at night that can't wait 'till morning!”

  


The old man's door was slammed shut without waiting for an answer. The glass rattled in the tiny window at the end of the hall.

  


Tintin smiled to himself despite the rude welcoming, it would be good to see the Captain again.

  


II

  


The Captain had gone to get a new bauble to show him and Tintin found himself alone in his living room. The wallpaper was crumpled in the corners, the baseboards bent here and there from age.

  


“I'll just be a minute,” the Captain called from his bedroom.

  


There was a bang and thud, along with the sound of cardboard sliding.

  


“Thundering Typhoons!” the Captain cursed, “Where has it got to?”

  


Tintin shook his head as his lips quirked, it always took the Captain ages to find anything and for good reason. The Captain's flat was full to bursting with strange oddities, as though the contents of a very large house had been crammed into a boarding house room. Most of it was still in boxes slumped from moisture and age, stacked along the floors and almost to the ceiling.

  


“I found it!” the Captain's triumphant cry.

  


There were bookshelves that bowed inward from the quantity of the volumes crammed on their shelves. Tintin had often pulled books from it, scanning the titles. Most were classics. There had been a few in different languages that had once been beautifully bound but the pages were covered in black dust, yellowed with age and the leather buckled.

  


“Take a look at this,” the Captain had appeared slightly flushed with a contraption in his hand, “it was something I found in my Grandaddy's old boxes. Thought it was lost.”

  


What was presented to Tintin in the Captain's cupped hands, was an impressive antique sexstant of considerable age.

  


“Great snakes!” Tintin said, “Wherever did you find that?”

  


They held it together, it was a very fine piece if a bit rusted. The ruler was still marked in Roman numerals and seafaring symbols unfamiliar to Tintin dotted it's length. It was so fine he was sure he hadn't seen anything so well preserved outside of a museum.

  


“Still works,” the Captain said, “Go on, try and move the gears.”

  


With some difficulty Tintin managed to open the angle wider, the gears shifting along the ruler to display the angles.

  


“I don't think it was ever on a ship,” the Captain said, “Looks like new.”

  


It was wondrous to see such a shiny mechanism so delicate in all its construction and gears, as it had been unearthed from such a pile of rubbish.

  


“It does,” Tintin said, “If I had to guess, I would say a sixteenth century Captain thought it too fine to take on his voyage.”

  


“Think I'd agree,” the Captain said.

  


The Captain had brushed his thumb over Tintin's palm. He took the sextant from his hands and set it on a rickety table. There was a suspended moment; Tintin counted the water as it dripped from somewhere in the pipes, he felt the move of the Captain's feet heavy towards him. He could hear the old man shuffling next door and smell the bacon the couple downstairs had cooked for their supper.

  


Tobacco and whiskey overwhelmed everything and Tintin felt the harsh scratch of whiskers against his face, tasted the rough lips on his own.

  


The Captain's kisses were still so shy but Tintin opened his mouth wider in invitation. He wouldn't have him hold back, he would never _want_ him to hold back.

  


Besides, it was the Captain who most often dropped to his knees with that hopeless look in his eyes, as he was doing now. The Captain was hungry for it - more hungry than he was for any alcohol. Tintin wasn't about to deny him what he wanted, especially since he had been so good the last few weeks.

  


“Go on,” Tintin said, “Captain.”

  


The older man wasn't wearing his Captain's hat but Tintin wished he was, as it still gave him a thrill. But it was equally exciting to see the Captain wet the edges of his own lips with his tongue, while Tintin felt the clasp undone on his three quarters, quite efficiently.

  


_He's had much more practice than I have_ , Tintin thought, _I wonder where? Tunisia? Bangladesh? There are many places catering to that sort of thing. Has he been to all of them?_

  


Tintin's fingers curled into the head of black hair, it felt so thick and bristled. It wasn't soft at all. Years of the ocean breeze, ship's cabins and sea water had taken their toll. But the Captain's mouth was much smoother and as he sucked Tintin's cock past his lips, all thoughts left.

  


“Ah!” Tintin clapped a hand over his own mouth.

  


It was difficult but he had to be quiet. The walls were so thin and yet, the Captain was good, so good. He took him deep into his mouth, sucked and swirled his tongue around the head. Tintin's legs shook slightly, despite being supported by the arm of an old setee.

  


“Capt-,” Tintin's knees trembled, “Captain...please.”

  


And now he was the one who begged, while his cock was in the mouth of a much older man. There was something he wanted and they didn't have much time. They would have to move elsewhere for it as the walls were far too thin. It was a dread risk doing what they did; if they were caught at it, it would be the Captain who would bear the punishment and not Tintin. He was to his endless chagrin, just a boy in the eyes of the law.

  


“To the bedroom,” Tintin whispered.

  


The Captain would take him there.

  


III

  


There was a small bed perched on a rusted, iron frame. Stacks of magazines wrinkled from moisture sat on the bed side table, concerning ships and seafaring. An empty bottle was covered in thick dust that might have contained a ship, there were other bottles scattered around the bed that had once contained whiskey, Tintin had accidentally kicked over a pile when he had tossed aside his shoe. It was a wretched, dark little room with a single smudge caked window above the bed that let in a glimmer of light from the evening outside.

  


“I've let up a bit,” the Captain said, “with the drinking. I promise.”

  


The Captain was on his knees by the bedside and had his big hands on Tintin's naked thighs. He stroked them gently, eagerly.

  


“Have you now?” Tintin said, his knee rested on the Captain's shoulder, “Then you've been very good indeed.”

  


Tintin had already undressed, his clothes dropped on top of what appeared to be a hand made rug. It was so old, it was likely that the Captain's great-grandmother had crafted it. Tintin had sat on the little bed and noted the dreadful squeaks it made when he did so.

  


The Captain's teeth left little marks on Tintin's pale skin. He nipped his way up his leg and pressed his face against Tintin's stomach, breathing deeply.

  


“I missed you,” Tintin said, his breath hitched with each nibble, “I worry about you all alone.”

  


“It's not me you should be worrying about,” The Captain's beard tickled his inner thigh, “I'm the one taking advantage.”

  


Tintin let out a short laugh, “Hardly. If anyone's being despoiled, it's you Captain.”

  


Tintin was pushed back on the bed hard enough to make the springs shriek. There was a bottle near the Captain but it wasn't whiskey, he was pouring it out onto his hands. Tintin spread his legs, the knotted hands on his thighs brushed his skin softly.

  


“Who's despoiling who now?” the Captain said smugly.

  


His fingers were coated, he pushed them inside of him, teasing with gentle strokes. Tintin looked at the Captain's hungry eyes and helped spread his own legs wide. In the sweetest voice he could manage, he whispered.

  


“Take me, Captain,” Tintin said, “Please.”

  


The Captain was rapidly undoing his trousers, they were pulled partway down just in case someone should bang on the door. Tintin quickly glanced at the window. It was a previously discussed escape route, in case he had to grab his clothes and make himself scarce. It was now or never, they were rapidly running out of time.

  


“Is it better than whiskey?” Tintin asked breathlessly, as the Captain pressed his cock inside of him.

  


“Much better,” he answered, “worlds above.”

  


There was an art to this they had discovered, it was important not to make so much noise as to wake the neighbors. One leg on the floor, another held up by the Captain. A languid thrust no matter how little time they had. The Captain was going so slow but the bed still groaned under them. It was good but not enough. Not nearly deep enough.

  


“On the floor,” Tintin suggested, “Let me.”

  


They settled on the old rug with the Captain on his back and Tintin straddling him. The wood floors creaked terribly but not nearly as bad as the bed. He could see the Captain's face grow red as the sweat trickled down his sweater. Tintin could see his own clothes twisted up on the floor next to the Captain's head.

  


His hands were under the Captain's blue sweater, he curled his fingers in the hair, felt the warm skin. He drove his pelvis down harder, the Captain was trying but it wasn't quite enough. He would help this time, he'd take what he wanted from the Captain by force.

  


The Captain was panting very loudly, it was perhaps safe to say the Captain had reached his limits in maintaining his silence. Tintin put his hands over his mouth as he slammed down hard, roughly taking the Captain's cock into him. So hard he would probably leave bruises but he knew the Captain loved this, loved it when Tintin took everything he wanted from him. His strong body marked by a boy half his age.

  


“'Tngn,” the Captain mumbled behind his hand, “TNnnn”

  


Tintin closed his eyes, the Captain was his now. He wrapped his hand around his own hard cock, it took very little. There was breath and teeth on his palm, he felt the Captain twitching as he came. He could feel the sperm shooting up inside of him, while he shivered and shook all over.

  


“Captain,” he whispered, “...ahh... Captain...”

  


A puffed breath against the Captain's sweaty chest as he collapsed on top of him. They were both breathing so hard and so loud, a shiver of fright went through Tintin. What if someone else had heard? But it was a silly thought, the floor wasn't possibly that thin.

  


The knock at the door startled them both. Tintin scrambled off the Captain and fumbled for his pants in the dim light. They froze. Another knock. They looked at one another.

  


It was hopeless, they couldn't help but burst out laughing. It was for next door. A woman's voice called out and a raucous could be heard, the old man on the stairs was denigrating late night visitations.

  


“Blistering barnacles!” the Captain exclaimed, “That gave me a fright!”

  


Tintin laughed into a kiss, how foolish it had been to jump at the sound. There was nothing in the world that could harm them here.

  


IV

  


There were tissues near the bed and Tintin made use of them. The Captain as well and afterward he had laid on the small bed while lighting a pipe. Tintin was leaning on the edge with his trousers half unbuttoned and dress shirt hanging languidly around his hips.

  


“Someday you'll have a house of your own,” Tintin said, “And everyone will come and go as they please.”

  


The Captain laughed gently, “That's a lovely wish, lad. But there are debts to pay.”

  


“You'll pay them,” Tintin said.

  


“Not that sort,” the Captain said, “It takes years.”

  


“I have years to spare,” Tintin replied, stubbornly.

  


“C'mere, my boy.”

  


They embraced, Tintin's chin in the crook of the Captain's shoulder. He smelled like whiskey and smoked things like tobacco and kippers. Underneath it all, Tintin could sniff a hint of each other.

  


“Be careful walking alone,” the Captain reminded him, “It's not very nice after dark.”

  


“I will be,” Tintin didn't want to let go.

  


But there it was. They both had work to do in the morning and appearances to upkeep. Tintin wondered if the last part would ever be any different, now that he was a famous reporter. That was the problem with infamy, one had to keep up with what others expected.

  


“I'm going to the market tomorrow to look for a story,” Tintin said, “I promise I'll find something nice for you.”

  


He straightened his pants, righted his shirt. He rescued his shoe from the pile of empty whiskey bottles.

  


The Captain snorted, “Amongst all that brick a brack?”

  


“Maybe a ship,” Tintin said, “Or a box for your sextant.”

  


“A wooden box,” the Captain said, “That would be nice to have.”

  


The dress shirt righted, Tintin slid on his yellow sweater. He leaned down and kissed the Captain on the lips, felt his whiskers rough against his cheek.

  


“Goodnight, Captain.”

  


The fog had settled near to the ground in the night, it was almost one in the morning. The sounds of pubs had faded as most had closed their doors to late night drinkers. Tintin picked his way through streets full of rubbish bins ready for morning collection, the rough cobblestones dotted with smashed bottles, tin cans and less savory liquids expelled from drunken revelers.

  


Soon, he would be home with Snowy who would lift up one ear and open one eye when he came in and let him go to bed unmolested. It was a temporary respite; the little dog would be of the mind jump on him in the wee hours of the morning for proper cuddles and a bit of revenge, since he had been out late.

  


But on a foggy night near the empty buildings with blacked out windows, Tintin felt a sense of loneliness keener than he had ever felt. He was disinterested in what other children his age were interested in; he would never share their experiences in a proper school or the relationships with similarly aged friends. His only boyhood friend lived in China, where he would be likely staying for a great many more years. No, the only one who understood him was the Captain because he understood that not everything was what it seemed. On the ship Aurora, Tintin had proven it.

  


“ _You know Captain,” Tintin had said while sitting on the edge of his bunk, “In Arabia it's very common for older men to seek out the company of boys.”_

  


“ _Is that so?” the Captain had said, his voice was hesitant but he had moved closer._

  


“ _It is,” Tintin had said, “And I've been to Arabia many times.”_

  


_Then, he had kissed him._

  


There was a shout and it had given him a shock. Tintin had passed a pub that had closed and suddenly young men and women poured onto the street. He leaped out of the way as a man pitched forward and clung to a wall for support. Tintin wrinkled his nose, he didn't like drinking. He disliked even more being a witness to that sort of thing.

  


“Excuse me,” Tintin said, hurrying around the corner.

  


It might have stung him just a little bit when he noticed a few of the wobbling pairs holding hands.

  


“ _Don't let it bother you,”_ he said to himself, _“It doesn't mean a thing. They'll forget all about each other in the morning.”_

  


When it was quiet again and the streets empty, he looked up at the sky. A few stars peeked out from behind dark clouds. The fog was beginning to lift. It would probably be a lovely day for the market and he had a mind to think that there was nothing to be sad about at all.

  


After all, he was sixteen and in love. The future could only be ever brighter.

  


  


  


 


End file.
